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GROWING  PAINS 


GROWING    PAINS 

JEAN  STARR  UNTERMEYER 


New  York  B.  W.  HUEBSCH  Mcmxviii 


Copyright,  1918,  by  B.  W.  Huebsch 

PRINTED  IN  U.  S.  A. 


TO  LOUIS: 


For  the  privilege  of  reprinting  many  of  the  poems 
in  this  volume  the  author  thanks  the  editors  of  The 
Century,  The  Liberator,  The  Smart  Set,  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse,  The  Seven  Arts,  The  Craftsman, 
The  Masses  and  other  magazines. 


CONTENTS 


GROWING  PAINS,  9 
CLAY  HILLS,  1 1 
HIGH-TIDE,   12 
BIRTH,  13 
THE  SUMMONS,   1 6 
AUTUMN,  1 8 
POSSESSION,  2  I 
CLOTHES,  22 
THE  POTTERIES,  25 
ZANESVILLE,  26 

A  MAN,  27 

RESIGNATION,  29 

PILGRIMAGE,  30 

ON  THE  BEACH,  3! 

CAGED,  33 

SONYA,  34 

CHURCH  SOCIABLE,  35. 

REBUKE,  36 

THE  BED,  38 

MOON-RISE,  40 


RAIN,  41 

"DISCOVER  ME  AGAIN,"  42 

TOLERANCE   AND  TRUTH,   43 

A  TEACHER,  44 

MEDICINE,  46 

SPRING,  47 

GIFTS,  51 

HYMN,  52 

A  SMALL  BOY'S  HALLOWE'EN,  53 

THE  SUNDAY  DRIVE,  '55 

LATE  AFTERNOON:    A  MAN  MEDITATES,  57. 

MIRAGE,  58 
ALONE,  59 
DELIVERANCE,  6 1 


GROWING  PAINS 

From  the  bloodless  battle, 

From     wrestling    with     memories — those     athletic 

ghosts  f 

From  an  aching  reach  for  Beauty, 
Speech  has  burst  forth. 
Not  for  Art's  sake, 

But  to  rid  me  of  an  ancient  sorrow, — 
Not  mine  alone  and  yet  so  wholly  mine. 

I  have  left  no  songs  for  an  idle  lute, 

No  pretty  tunes  of  coddled  ills, 

But  the  bare  chart  of  my  growing  pains. 


[9] 


\l 


CLAY  HILLS 


IT  is  easy  to  mould  the  yielding  clay. 
And  many  shapes  grow  into  beauty 
Under  the  facile  hand. 
But  forms  of  clay  are  lightly  broken ; 
They  will  lie  shattered  and  forgotten  in  a  dingy 
corner. 

But  underneath  the  slipping  clay 

Is  rock  .  .  . 

I  would  rather  work  in  stubborn  rock 

All  the  years  of  my  life, 

And  make  one  strong  thing 

And  set  it  in  a  high,  clean  place, 

To  recall  the  granite  strength  of  my  desire. 


HIGH-TIDE 

I  EDGED  back  against  the  night. 

The  sea  growled  assault  on  the  wave-bitten  shore. 

And  the  breakers, 

Like  young  and  impatient  hounds, 

Sprang,  with  rough  joy  on  the  shrinking  sand. 

Sprang — but  were  drawn  back  slowly, 

With  a  long,  relentless  pull, 

Whimpering,  into  the  dark. 

Then  I  saw  who  held  them  captive; 

And  I  saw  how  they  were  bound 

With  a  broad  and  quivering  leash  of  light, 

Held  by  the  moon, 

As,  calm  and  unsmiling, 

She  walked  the  deep  fields  of  the  sky. 

[12] 


BIRTH 

SOMETIMES  in  the  hollow  dark, 

Sometimes  in  the  crowded  day, 

Comes  the  memory  of  your  room. 

The  air,  warm  and  faintly  aromatic — 

The  starched  rustle  of  the  nurse's  gown — 

The  hushed  air,  the  busy  whispers — 

The  wide  bed,  tightly  folded  in — 

And  your  young  body,  gracious  even  in  pain. 

Your  head,  turned  sideways  on  the  pillow, 

Was  flushed  and  stern; 

The  cords  of  your  neck  swelling 

Up  under  the  edge  of  your  soft,  brown  hair. 

In  that  strained  quiet 

You  seemed  caught  up  in  some  vast,  harmonious 
rhythm, 

Your  limbs  consenting  dumbly  to  an  unheard  mark 
ing  of  time; 

[13] 


Attaining  in  your  labor  a  grandeur  of  beauty 

That  shamed  your  usual  saucy  prettiness. 

I  longed  then,  I  remember,  for  the  heroic  marble 

That  would  hold  this  triumph  immortal. 

You  held  hard  to  my  hand. 

Only  your  restless  fingers  were  eloquent  with  pain. 

And  I  marvelled  at  your  composure 

And  dignity, 

You — the  petulant,  spoiled  child  I 

Your  lips  moved  soundlessly; 

Little  drops  of  moisture  beaded  your  forehead. 

And  I  remembered  seeing  it  so  on  early  summer 

mornings 
When  we,  two  sisters,  slept  together. 

At  last  your  cry! 

So  sharp  and  smiting, 

And  echoing  like  a  call  from  a  far  place. 

Then,  after  a  tense  moment, 

Trembling  on  the  turbulent  warmth, 

Came  the  tentative  whine  of  your  child. 

Your  hands  loosened  and  I  left  the  room, 

Somehow  stumbling  past  the  anxious  faces, 


Avoiding  the  banal,  questioning  mouths, 

To  where  the  air  was  cool 

And  where  I  could  recover 

From  this  miracle.  .  .  . 

For  I  had  seen  the  naked  mystery  of  birth  unfold 

itself; 

Tortuous,  heavy  and  slow. 
And  I  had  watched,  alert  and  curious, 
To  learn  the  meaning.  .  .  . 
And  here  I  was  more  dazed  and  baffled  than  before. 

Compelling  my  mind,  stabbing  my  soul  to  courage, 

Sometimes  in  the  hollow  dark, 

Sometimes  in  the  crowded  day, 

Comes  the  memory  of  your  room. 

And  once  again  I  feel 

The  terror  and  the  triumph  of  that  loneliness 

That  wraps  us  round, 

Each  in  his  greatest  hour, 

With  exultation  and  with  fertile  pain. 


THE  SUMMONS 

WHAT   urged   me   through   sleep   to   the   narrow 

window? 
Toward  the  east  marches  the  packed  army  of  the 

snow, 

Crowding  the  street  from  side  to  side 
Driving  ahead  with  chilling  haste, 
Going  to  some  white  splendor, 
Leaving  behind  a  white  desolation. 

The  window  panes  rattle, 
Like  drum-beats  that  echo,  off-key; 
Calling.  .  .  . 

The  snow  rushes  on  with  a  ma'd  purpose, 
Gathering  recruits  as  it  goes. 
Always  the  drum-taps  summon  .  .  . 

[16] 


What  do  they  ask  for? 
Whom  are  they  calling? 

I  go  trembling  back  to  bed, 

Stiffened  with  a  cold  courage, 

And  throw  warm  and  defensive  arms 

Over  the  body  of  the  man  I  love, 

As  he  twitches  and  starts  in  a  restless  sleep. 


[17] 


AUTUMN 

(FOR  MY  MOTHER) 

How  memory  cuts  away  the  years, 
And  how  clean  the  picture  comes 
Of  autumn  days,  brisk  and  busy; 
Charged  with  keen  sunshine. 
And  you,  stirred  with  activity ; 
The  spirit  of  these  energetic  days. 

There  was  our  back-yard, 

So  plain  and  stripped  of  green, 

With  even  the  weeds  carefully  pulled  away 

From  the  crooked,  red  bricks  that  made  the  walk. 

And  the  earth  on  either  side  so  black. 

Autumn  and  dead  leaves  burning  in  the  sharp  air. 
And  winter  comforts  coming  in  like  a  pageant. 

[18] 


I  shall  not  forget  them: 

Great  jars  laden  with  the  raw  green  of  pickles, 

Standing  in  a  solemn  row  across  the  back  of  the  porch, 

Exhaling  the  pungent  dill ; 

And  in  the  very  center  of  the  yard, 

You,  tending  the  great  catsup  kettle  of  gleaming 

copper 

Where  fat,  red  tomatoes  bobbed  up  and  down 
Like  jolly  monks  in  a  drunken  dance. 
And  there  were  bland  banks  of  cabbages  that  came 

by  the  wagon-load, 
Soon  to  be  cut  into  delicate  ribbons 
Only  to  be  crushed  by  the  heavy,  wooden  stompers. 
Such  feathery  whiteness — to  come  to  kraut! 
And  after,  there  were  grapes  that  hid  their  brightness 

under  a  grey  dust, 

Then  gushed  thrilling,  purple  blood  over  the  fire ; 
And  enamelled  crab-apples  that  tricked  with  their 

fragance 

But  were  bitter  to  taste. 

And  there  were  spicy  plums  and  ill-shaped  quinces, 
And  long  string  beans  floating  in  pans  of  clear  water 
Like  slim,  green  fishes. 


And  there  was  fish  itself, 

Salted,  silver  herring  from  the  city  .  ,  . 

And  you  moved  among  these  mysteries, 

Absorbed  and  smiling  and  sure; 

Stirring,  tasting,  measuring, 

With  the  precision  of  a  ritual. 

I  like  to  think  of  you  in  your  years  of  power- 

You,  now  so  shaken  and  so  powerless — 

High  priestess  of  your  home. 


[20] 


\ 

POSSESSION 

WALK  into  the  world, 

Go  into  the  places  of  trade; 

Go  into  the  smiling  country— 

But  go,  clad,  wrapped  closely  always, 

Shielded  and  sustained 

In  the  visible  flame  of  my  love. 

Let  it  blaze  about  you — 
A  glowing  armor  for  all  to  see; 
Flashing  around  your  head — 
A  tender  and  valiant  halo. 

I  think  there  will  be  many  to  wonder 

And  many  to  stand  in  awe  and  envy. 

But  surely  no  one  will  come  too  close  to  you; 

No  one  will  dare  to  claim  you — 

Hand  or  heart — 

As  you  pass  in  your  shining  and  terrible  garment. 

[21] 


CLOTHES 

SINCE  the  earliest  days  I  have  dressed  myself 

In  fanciful  clothes; 

Trying  to  satisfy  a  whispering  insistence. 

There  was  so  much  I  dared  not  give 

To  speech  or  act; 

So  I  put  romance  and  fantasy 

Into  my  raiment. 

In  that  dreamy  girlhood 

My  clothes  were  like  my  thoughts; 

Vague  and  sentimental. 

They  were  of  misty  greens 

And  faded  lavenders ; 

Like  cloudy  colors  in  entangled  woods, 

Like  the  budding  thoughts  of  a  young  girl. 

Later  on  when  womanhood  came, 
And  Motherhood  sat  consciously  on  me, 

[22] 


I  essayed  the  dignified  and  noble 
In  a  trailing  gown  of  gray. 

But  Spring  came, 

And  with  it  a  dress  of  juicy  green 

And  tricky  yellows, 

With  darts  of  black, 

Like  bare  twigs  showing  through  bright  leaves. 

After  a  while  I  revelled  in  the  sophistication 

Of  a  gown  of  black; 

Cut  low,  swirling  in  worldly  curves. 

And  once  I  dared  the  long  line  of  the  siren 

In  a  gown  of  weird  brocade. 

But  these  things  have  not  silenced  the  whispers. 
Something  urgent  wants  a  tongue. 
My  clothes  are  not  me,  myself ; 
Something  real  escapes  in  the  translation  of  color 
and  fabric. 

I  think  I  should  go  naked  into  the  streets, 
And  wander  unclothed  into  people's  parlors. 
The  incredulous  eyes  of  the  bewildered  world 

[231 


Might  give  me  back  my  true  image, 
Maybe  in  the  glances  of  others 
I  would  find  out  what  I  really  am. 


[24] 


THE  POTTERIES 

WHEN  the  blue  clay  glints  through  the  rusty  hillsides, 

It  is  not  to  the  eye  of  Man  it  beckons, 

Nor  to  his  itching  fingers ; 

But  to  his  world-old  instinct  of  obedience 

That  bids  him  carry  on  the  trade  and  tradition  of 

his  Father, 
Who  wrought  beauty 
From  the  willing  earth. 


[25] 


ZANESVILLE 

1  WILL  not  be  like  the  unaspiring  hills, 

Whence  the  sour  clay  is  taken, 

To  be  moulded  by  the  shape-loving  fingers  of  Man 

Into  vases  and  cups  of  an  old  pattern. 

But  I  will  be  my  own  creator, 
Dragging  myself  from  the  clinging  mud, 
And  mould  myself  into  fresh  and  lovelier  shapes 
To  celebrate  my  passion  for  Beauty. 


[26] 


A  MAN 

(TO  MY  FATHER) 

OFTEN,  when  I  would  sit,  a  dreamy,  straight- 
haired  child, 

A  book  held  gaping  on  my  knee, 
Watering  a  sterile  romance  with  my  thoughts, 
You  would  come  bounding  to  the  curb 
And  startle  me  to  life. 

You  sat  so  straight  upon  your  vibrant  horse- 
That  lovely  horse,  all  silken  fire  and  angry  grace — 
And  yet  you  seemed  so  merged  in  him, 
So  like !    At  least  my  thoughts 
Gave  you  a  measure  of  that  wildness. 
And  oh,  for  many  years  you  seemed  to  me 
Something  to  marvel  at  and  yet  to  fear. 

But  now  I  know  that  you  resemble  most 
That  growth  in  nature  that  you  most  revere. 

[27] 


You  are  so  like,  so  very  like,  a  tree — 

Grown  straight  and  strong  and  beautiful, 

With  many  leaves. 

The  years  but  add  in  richness  to  your  boughs, 

You  make  a  noble  pattern  on  the  sky. 

About  your  rugged  trunk 

Vines  creep  and  lichens  cling, 

And  children  play  at  tag. 

Upon  your  branches  some  will  hang  their  load 

And  rest  and  cool  while  you  must  brave  the  sun, 

But  you  put  forth  new  life  with  every  year, 

And  tower  nearer  to  the  clouds 

And  never  bend  or  grow  awry. 

I  wonder  what  sweet  water  bathes  your  roots, 
And  if  you  gain  your  substance  from  the  earth; 
Or  if  you  have  a  treaty  with  the  sun, 
Or  keep  some  ancient  promise  with  the  heavens. 


[28] 


RESIGNATION 

Now  hear  me: 

I  will  cast  aside  my  longing  for  romantic  roles 

And  accept  my  destiny  with  a  wry  pride. 

I  will  be  a  consoling  breast; 

Lips  of  comfort  and  counsel; 

A  retreat  from  storms  and  temptations ; 

And  the  officer-in-chief  of  the  domestic  garrison. 

I,  who  was  wont  to  think  of  myself 

As  an  arch  rebel, 

The  very  symbol  of  Romance, 

Or  a  singing  flame  that  lit  up  the  corners  of  our 

world.  .  .  . 

But  I  will  take  a  sly  comfort  in  my  lot, 
And  my  share  of  glory,  too, 
In  the  praises  of  your  songs, 
And  the  wages  of  your  love! 

[29] 


PILGRIMAGE 

OH,  rude  hills, 

Why  do  you  turn  your  purple  backs  on  me 

When  I  seek  you  in  the  evening 

With  praise  and  questioning  in  my  heart? 

Are  you  too  rapt  in  conversation  with  the  clouds; 

Or  too  aloof  in  kingly  unconcern? 

Or  have  you  turned,  perhaps,  in  very  pity, 

Knowing  I  would  be  stricken 

By  the  shattering  brightness  of  your  gaze? 


[30] 


ON  THE  BEACH 

THERE  was  motion  in  the  night — 

Motion  of  sea,  of  breeze,  of  cloud — 

But  we  lay  motionless  upon  the  sand, 

With  far-reaching  thoughts 

And  little  speech. 

We  watched  awhile  the  changing  shapes  of  clouds — 

Now  like  a  flock  of  birds, 

Now  like  a  lonely  tree  .  .  . 

We  were  strangely  stirred, 

For  it  was  summer,  but  restive  spring  was  in  the  air. 

After  a  while  we  talked  of  love — 

Of  the  heedless  stabs,  the  healing  wounds  of  love — 

Of  a  distant  friend. 

And  then,  as  the  sea  grew  louder, 

Of  the  war. 


Our  thoughts  grew  turbulent; 

Our  words  clashed  like  weapons  .  .  . 

Louder  and  nearer  the  sea  boomed  up. 

A  red,  smoking  moon  burst  through  a  cloud; 

Our  words  darted  out  with  a  sharper  sound 

Until,  like  spent  waves 

That  ran  out  and  were  lost  in  the  sea, 

They  sank  lower  and  ceased, 

And  were  lost  in  the  dark. 

There  was  quiet  in  the  night — 

Quiet  of  star-hung  skies,  of  stretching  sands; 

Quiet  of  space. 

And  the  moon,  grown  pale,  floated  lightly  off, 

Like  a  child's  soap-bubble,  fragile  and  clear. 

Our  hands  sought  each  other's. 

The  night  had  its  way  .  .  . 

We  turned  with  peace  in  our  hearts 

From  the  clamor  of  seas  and  of  wars 

To  the  greater  clamor  of  love. 


[32] 


CAGED 

I  COULD  almost  see  the  heat  curl 

In  grinning,  evil  curves, 

Up  through  the  narrow  court. 

And  I  flapped,  on  naked,  slippered  feet 

Across  the  bare  floor ; 

And  sipped   at  something   cool   and   drooped   ki- 

monoed  arms 
With  sick  languor. 

And  then  I  saw  you  at  your  window — 
You,  with  your  damp  grey  face, 
In  your  itching  servant's  black, 
Your  swollen  fingers  heavy  on  the  sill. 
You  gazed  dully  at  the  caged  canary 
Songless  on  his  sticky  perch. 


[33] 


SONYA 

WHAT  made  your  little,  wizened  face  so  kind, 

And  made  me  happy  just  to  look  at  you ; 

And  see  your  small  and  crooked-seeming  body 

Bend  over  household  tasks  or  sewing 

In  that  skilled  way  you  had. 

And  what  made  the  long-rebelling  thought 

Assail  me,  when  your  high,  shrill  voice 

Pierced  me  in  distant  rooms  and  I  could  hear  you 

Pouring  love-words  on  my  only  child. 

I  knew  your  human  need,  your  tender  heart. 
And  took  your  lavish  service  and  your  love 
With  almost  shame. 

And  you  have  gone, 

Passed  with  fierce  loyalty  to  another  home, 
And  squander  mother-love  on  strangers'  children 
For  twenty-seven  dollars  every  month. 

[34] " 


CHURCH  SOCIABLE 

"ISN'T  it  quaint,"  he  turned  and  said  to  me, 
"To  watch  these  village  people  at  the  fair?" 
But  I  had  seen  too  often  what  was  there; 

I  shrugged  impatience  at  his  sympathy  .  .  . 

I  was  a  child  again,  and  Mrs.  Lee 
And  other  members  of  The  Ladies'  Aid 
At  tables  on  the  lawn,  a  meek  parade, 

Were  serving  cakes  and  glasses  of  iced-tea. 

I  hated  this  weak  pomp  of  charity, 

This  pauper  feast  to  aid  the  stricken  poor. 

I  watched  these  too-thin  ladies  seek  their  door 

In  sweetly  pious  insincerity; 

Holding  themselves  so  righteously  alone, 
Turning  their  Christian  backs  on  Mrs.  Cohn. 


[35] 


REBUKE 

I  GATHERED  what  insolent  gardens  grew, 

Roses  of  every  kind  and  hue. 

I  took  two  armfuls,  I  cut  them  down 

And  brought  them  grudgingly  to  the  town. 

I  hated  the  country  that  shut  me  in, 

With  strange  calm  folk  from  my  restless  kin, 

I  even  loved  the  gritty  train 

That  carried  me  to  the  city  again. 

And  once  in  the  El  I  looked  to  see 

Familiar  sights  withheld  from  me: 

Hurrying  houses,  row  on  row; 

Colored  crowds  in  the  street  below; 

A  city  park  edged  boldly  between; 

(I  silently  hailed  its  dusty  green.) 

Hair-shops,  department  stores,  rooms  askew, 

In  a  moving  flash  past  the  window  flew. 

How  heavy  my  drooping  roses  grew. 

[36] 


Rounding  a  turn  the  cars  slackened  and  creaked 

In  front  of  a  loft  where  the  sunlight  streaked 

A  mocking  finger  across  the  dust 

That  lay  on  the  windows,  a  mouldy  crust. 

I  craned  to  pierce  that  sweaty  gloom, 

To  know  how  they  fared  in  that  reeking  room. 

I  could  hardly  see  what  those  huddled  girls 

Were  doing  with  wires  and  paper  twirls  .  .  . 

And  then,  in  the  grimy  morning  hours 

$  saw — they  were  making  paper  flowers. 


[37] 


THE  BED 

I  LOVE  that  hour  best  of  all  the  hours, 

When  freed  from  our  friends  and  the  clutches  of  day, 

The  last  awake  in  the  quiet  house, 

We  lie  carelessly  clasped  in  friendly  content 

And  lapse  into  drowsy  philosophies. 

Here  on  our  bed — 

More  than  moon-swept  beach 

Or  beckoning,  romantic  wood, 

More  than  the  family  board, 

Our  common  meeting  ground — 

Here  ecstasy  has  caught  us  up  together, 

Man  and  woman,  as  if  in  some  huge  hand, 

Torn  up  out  of  the  world ; 

Joyously  yielding  to  a  mighty  urge, 

Burning  and  unaware. 

And  pain  has  fettered  us  here, 

[38] 


•Bitter,  corrosive  pain, 

rWhen  soul  grapples  with  soul  and  the  white  scar 


remains ; 


And  pain  that  is  mild, 

Healing  pain  that  comes  with  gentle  tears. 

The  window  curtain  beckons  as  if  flung  by  an  in 
visible  hand. 
Is  it  Isolde's  scarf?  .  .  . 
Old  memories  half-awake  us 
Who  are  half-asleep: 

A  strain  of  music  we  have  learned  together; 
A  mystic  night  beside  a  midnight  sea ; 
The  smile  of  filtered  sunshine  when  our  boy 
Laughed  hope  back  to  our  hopeless  hearts. 

We  sigh,  clasp  hands  in  weary  thanks — 
And  the  bed  draws  us  together; 
Innocent  children  in  a  mother's  arms, 
Shriven  upon  the  breast  of  sleep. 


[39] 


MOON-RISE 

walked  contentedly  along, 
So  at  home  in  the  night, 
That  when  I  saw  a  cozy,  yellow  moon 
Reflected  in  a  warm  and  shallow  pool, 
It  seemed  the  comfortable  lamp  on  my  table 
Mirrored  in  my  cup  of  tea. 


[40] 


RAIN 

I  HAVE  always  hated  the  rain, 
And  the  gloom  of  grayed  skies. 
But  now  I  think  I  must  always  cherish 
Rain-hung  leaf  and  the  misty  river; 
And  the  friendly  screen  of  dripping  green 
Where  eager  kisses  were  shyly  given 
And  your  pipe-smoke  made  clouds  in  our  damp,  close 
heaven. 

The  curious  laggard  passed  us  by, 

His  wet  shoes  soughed  on  the  shining  walk. 

And  that  afternoon  was  filled  with  a  blurred  glory — > 

That  afternoon,  when  we  first  talked  as  lovers. 


[41] 


"DISCOVER  ME  AGAIN" 

DISCOVER  me  again — 
Look  at  me  with  new  eyes,  oh  my  beloved. 
See,  my  aspect  changes  to  the  need  of  love, 
Even  as  the  stable  earth  answers  the  call  of  the 
seasons. 

Do  not  regard  me  only  as  a  winter-wife, 

A  pedlar  of  homely  comforts. 

Indeed  I  am  also  your  girl  of  Spring. 

Dreams  possess  and  inhabit  me. 

But  these  lie  sick  and  languid; 

They  quicken  to  the  call  of  life, 

Only  at  the  recognition  of  your  glance, 

At  the  hail  of  your  love. 

Discover  me  again! 

[42] 


TOLERANCE  AND  TRUTH 

SOMETIMES,  when  I  hear  people  mouth  the  word 
"toleration," 

I  am  moved  by  a  fury  and  a  kind  of  pity  too. 

Because  I  know  they  have  run  too  long  with  Com 
promise, 

That  girl  of  easy  virtue, 

Who  yields  to  all  with  a  slack  smile, 

And  weakens  her  paramours  by  their  quick  and  musty 
victories. 

How  different  they  who  seek  Truth, 

She,  whose  radiant  virtue  is  a  beacon  in  strange 

places. 

No  man  can  wholly  possess  her; 
But  they  become  strong  who  follow  her  searching 

footsteps ; 

Strengthened  by  that  slow  and  rigorous  pursuit — 
And  the  hope  of  her  shining  surrender. 

[43] 


A  TEACHER 

(FOR  H.  E.) 

IT  was  late  afternoon. 

Wearily  a  yellow  streak  of  sunlight 

Fell  through  the  blue  net  curtains, 

Making  greenish  shadows  on  your  face 

And  over  your  heavy  shoulders. 

I  watched  you  strain  to  sit  straight 

On  the  stiff  chair  by  the  piano's  side, 

While  a  heedless  and  hurrying  girl 

Stumbled  over  her  scales, 

And  giggled  out  her  excuses 

With  the  gauche  coquetry  of  fourteen. 

I  thought  of  your  reaching  aims, 
And  of  how  you  were  always  giving 
From  your  heart  and  brain ; 

[44] 


Giving  from  the  toil  of  years — 

Giving  yourself ; 

Of  the  many  you  urged  to  hardier  striving; 

Of  those  who  were  eased  and  lifted ; 

And  of  those — like  this  thin-souled  child — 

For  whom  sacrifice  was  empty. 

And  when  a  patient  smile  lit  up  your  face, 
Warming  your  eyes,  but  deepening  the  ruts  of  care, 
I  was  reminded  of  lamplight  in  a  well-loved  room- 
Lamplight  that  cheered,  but  whose  drooping  beams 
Revealed  the  shabbiness  of  nearby-chairs 
And  deepened  the  shadows. 


[45] 


MEDICINE 

THEY  lay  small  healing  to  my  mind, 

They  who  come  with  luke-warm  poultices  of  praise, 

And  smile  a  festered,  green  smile 

And  call  me  clever; 

Or  those  that  come  with  crippling  kindness, 

Lauding  my  domestic  wisdom. 

These  are  not  the  things  I  strive  for. 

My  mind  would  rise  from  its  rumpled  couch. 

It  has  little  toleration 

With  the  bed-side  manner  of  friends. 

I  know  a  potion  for  my  pain : 

Life  will  brew  me  a  tonic 

Of  work — 

Work  that  will  make  me  whole  again, 

When  I  can  labor  with  laughter. 

[46] 


SPRING 

PAIN  hung  on  me  like  a  thick,  wet  robe 

And  dragged  me  down, 

And  sickened  me  with  cold  and  numbness 

When  I  longed  for  the  poignant  health  of  spring. 


Then  fever  came, 

Fever  that  drove  me  from  room  to  room, 

And  turned  me  restlessly  from  books  to  music, 

Away  from  music  to  the  open  window, 

But  always  back  again  to  cankering  doubt. 

Till  I  could  no  longer  fail  to  understand 

Your  wistful  and  unwilling  step, 

That  seemed  to  cross  our  threshold,  looking  back; 

Nor  evade  the  wounds  of  your  empty  caresses, 

Rituals  without  faith. 

Your  sudden  kindnesses  and  sudden  angers 

Crumpled  the  hope  in  my  heart, 

[47] 


And  were  confessions  reflecting  my  fear: 
"Who  was  she?    What  was  her  bearing? 
Was  she  unlike  me?    Was  she  golden,  tall?" 
Half  adoration  filled  me  for  her  unknown  graces, 
A  trembling  exaltation  that  is  beauty's  due. 
And  then  rage, — mounting  cruel,  revengeful, — 
Shook  me  with  its  fierce  hunger, 
Till  my  flayed  soul  fell 
Gasping  and  scarred. 
After  imagined  tortures. 

And  fear  again — cold  fear. 

That  night  came — and  I  had  sensed  the  moment, 

And  something  in  me  dramatized  my  pain, 

For  I  had  dressed  in  black. 

And  you  came  in,  blind  to  my  trembling, 

And  shuffled,  halting  to  my  arms ; 

Blurting  out  your  story,  half-thrilled,  half-shamed, 

At  once  thankful  for  the  safety  of  my  sure  love, 

Yet  clutching,  childishly,  the  frayed  ends  of  your 

shoddy  romance. 
Till  I  had  soothed  you, 

[48] 


And  rewarded  your  belated  loyalty 
With  tenderness,  until  you  slept. 
And  I  fought  hotly  through  the  night, 
With  my  cold  pain. 

The  days  of  healing  came 

And  you  gathered  renewed  ecstasy  with  each  hour, 

And  clothed  me  with  your  dreams  again, 

And  shook  off  our  tears  with  a  careless  gesture, 

And  walked  about  with  the  face  of  a  child. 

And   I   went   lamely   through    twelve    questioning 

months, 

And  answered  you  with  uncertain  smiles, 
And  wept  in  secret  hours 
Till  I  could  test  our  happiness  with  Spring. 

Then  Spring  came 

And  you  made  the  season  my  mirror; 

Confidence  came  back, 

And  my  wild  love ! 

But  when  I  grow  most  insolent  with  joy 

[49] 


A  cold  fear  mocks  me; 
An  old  fear: 
Spring. 


ISO] 


GIFTS 

I  HAVE  so  little  art. 

Words  leap  from  me  with  incoherent  eagerness, 

Or  stumble  out,  stammering  and  vague ; 

Even  my  dumb  tears  gesture  without  eloquence. 

I  am  so  poor  in  gifts. 

I  have  so  few  light-hearted  hours, 

So  little  fantasy  to  lead  you  on  strange  quests, 

So  little  beauty  to  refresh  your  eye. 

But  I  am  great  in  this : 

For  you  I  hold  infinities  of  love. 

For  you  I  am 

The  tender  fortress  of  content, 

The  radiant  harbor  of  desire. 


HYMN 

I  WILL  sing  to  the  mounting  hills ; 
I  will  send  out  my  song  to  them, 
And  salute  their  green  piety 
With  melody,  golden  and  long. 

There  is  strength  in  the  steady  hills ; 
They  are  rooted  in  purpose  and  peace. 
They  gaze  at  me  so  simply 
And  answer  my  questioning  heart. 


[52] 


A  SMALL  BOY'S  HALLOWE'EN 

AH,  Dick,  a  wonderful  sight! 

We  almost  touched  the  moon  tonight. 

When  our  brave  little  car 

Raced  up  the  frosty  avenue. 

And,  Dick, — the  scene 

Was  set  for  Hallowe'en! 

The  pumpkin  moon  was  swollen  tight, 

And  right  at  the  top,  a  scar, 

Like  a  silver  knife-edge  thrusting  through. 

And  the  witch-broom  trees  against  the  light, 

On  the  far  horizon's  edge, 

Were  sweeping  the  sky  till  they  broke  the  blue 

In  a  ragged  line  of  purple  and  black, 

And  golden  leaves  from  Heaven's  hedge 

Peeped  through  the  crack. 

[53] 


We  watched  the  witches'  broom-sticks  sway 
E&s  the  wind  whistled  past  in  a  frightened  way. 
And  we — we  hurried  back. 


[54] 


THE  SUNDAY  DRIVE 

WE  passed  the  slaughter-house  and  left  the  town. 
And  there  it  stretched  in  opulent  width, 
An  endless  piece  of  tawny  silk,  tacked  down  by  trees, 
Across  the  rich,  indifferent  fields. 
Our  horse  would  amble  on,  as  on  a  common  road, 
Under  luxurious  maples,  till  we  came 
Opposite  the  red  brick  building,  where  the  walks 
Were  finely  laid  at  martial  right-angles ; 
And  where  proper-planted  flowers  grew  in  rows, 
Not  haphazard,  as  in  our  neighbor's  small  back-yard. 
We  used  to  stop  there  almost  every  time 
To  look  across  the  road  and  watch  the  house, 
A  stiff-backed  house  that  sat  too  straight 
And  looked  down  at  the  road  with  tight-shut  eyes. 
There  never  was  a  sound  of  quarreling, 
Of  labor,  or  of  children  playing  games — 

[55] 


One  scarcely  ever  saw  a  man  about. 

Nothing  came  down  the  road  but  quiet, 

A  cold,  unnatural  silence  that  froze  our  speech. 

We  somehow  felt  it  was  a  wealthy  house, 

And  the  road,  we  knew  the  road, 

The  finest  drive  in  all  Muskingum  County. 

We  always  wondered  and  I  wonder  yet, 

Why  those  who  named  it  should  have  called  that 

stretch, — 

So  wide,  so  beautiful,  so  rich — 
"The  Poor  House  Road." 


[56] 


EATE  AFTERNOON:  A  MAN 
MEDITATES 

I  WAS  at  one  with  the  dull  middle-age  of  the  year, 

Sitting  alone  on  my  front  porch, 

That  porch,  so  comfortless  and  drab. 

Inside  my  wife  rattled  the  supper  dishes, 

And  without,  in  the  smoky,  pink  twilight, 

The  woodbine  on  the  wall  showed  a  rusty  purple. 

The  yellow  leaves  dripped  down  with  tired  gestures; 

But  one  young  tree  was  thoughtlessly  green. 

The  holiday  throng  dawdled  home ; 

Scraps  of  talk  rang  out  and  were  lost  again  in  the 

broken  rhythm  of  straggling  feet; 
The  crowded  cars  creaked  slowly  past. 
From  one  a  girl  looked  back — 
A  dark  girl's  ardent  face,  capped  in  bright  green, 
Looked  at  me, 
Laughing  .  .  . 
Thoughtlessly  calling  my  youth. 

[57] 


MIRAGE 

As  the  great  ship  sped  through  the  evening, 

And  the  fire-ball  of  the  sun  swung  in  the  arch  of  the 
skies, 

A  vision  of  you  rose  out  of  the  foam,  your  vibrant 
hair  blowing  up  into  the  sun. 

You  danced  over  the  shining  waters  in  great,  exultant 
bounds, 

With  all  the  zest  of  conquering  youth  in  your  up- 
flung  gestures. 

You  shouted  loving  and  mirthful  commands. 

And  it  seemed  that  I  must  leap  from  the  prow, 

And  rush  to  you  over  the  radiant  sea! 


[58] 


ALONE 

OUT  in  the  night  alone — 

The  silent  trees,  which  are  no  enemies  of  mine, 

But  neither  friends; 

And  a  moon,  which  heavily  goes 

Behind  pendulous,  smoky  clouds. 

Out  in  the  night — 

And  not  even  a  wind  blowing 

To  send  fear  into  my  heart. 

My  thoughts  do  that; 

My  thoughts  that  go  to  an  old  song: 

"Father  and  mother  are  long  since  dead 

And  no  one  knows  me." 

No  one  knows  me  tonight. 
I  walk  heavily  along  the  roa'd 
And  though  I  can  see  the  lights  of  my  home, 

[59] 


I  am  alone. 

You  have  shut  me  out  with  a  thought 

And  I  am  friendless. 

I  have  kinship  with  no  living  thing; 

Nature  does  not  hold  out  her  hands  to  me, 

Nor  God. 

"Father  and  mother  are  long  since  dead 

And  no  one  knows  me/' 


[60] 


DELIVERANCE 

JUST  think  of  me, 

Come  from  the  shadows  of  the  womb 

To  the  shadows  of  this  world ; 

Seeing  the  sun  only  through  a  veil. 

On  both  sides  of  me  walk  ghostly  shapes ; 

One  on  either  hand. 

Often  on  a  Spring  afternoon, 

Being  misled  by  the  bright  glow  beyond  the  hills, 

I  would  run  with  all  the  strength  and  fleetness  of  my 
youth 

Up  the  long  slope! 

Hearing  only  my  heart-beats  and  the  rushing  of  the 
wind, 

I  stood  on  the  summit  and  hallooed  at  freedom. 

I  was  glad,  thinking  I  had  outrun  my  gray  com 
panions; 

[61] 


Glad  for  one  moment. 

But  as  the  glow  died  in  my  cheeks  and  in  my  heart, 
I  heard  again  the  evil  footfalls,  measured  and  slow. 
And  I  knew  they  were  still  abreast  of  me  ... 

Then  on  a  glad  May  morning  I  thought  I  met  the 

Sun. 
I  had  always  wished  to  look  him  in  the  face ;  to  see 

him  without  his  veil. 
And,  in  that  dazzling  moment,  I  thought:     "At  last, 

the  Sun!" 

Such  a  light  and  gladness  was  in  that  face, 
Such  a  rush  of  living  love. 
It  was  not  the  Sun. 
It  was  my  lover. 
I  mated  with  him. 
He  made  me  such  a  bright  palace  of  words  that  I 

thought  I  could  live  in  it. 
I  told  him  of  the  shadows  and  of  the  veil  before  the 

face  of  the  Sun; 
But  he  said  he  had  a  Magic  that  would  slay  my  grim 

companions ; 


And  that  it  was  not  the  Sun  that  was  veiled,  but  my 

eyes; 

And  that  he  could  tear  those  veils  away  .  .  . 
So  in  the  days  that  followed  I  lay  in  a  bright  dream. 
At  times  I  waked  for  an  instant  but  then  I  felt  the 

dread  presences  always  with  me. 

So  back  into  the  dream  .  .  . 

And  from  that  dream,  half  ecstasy,  half  pain, 

Came  our  child. 

And  I  was  glad. 

"Now,"  I  said,  as  I  watched  him  grow  like  a  flame, 

"Here  is  a  fire  to  burn  away  mist — 

"And  here  is  a  golden  sword  to  slay  an  army  of 

shadows !" 
And  I  waited  for  the  miracle. 

But  the  flame  danced  like  a  wind-blown  butterfly; 

And  the  sword  made  only  a  happy  clatter; 

A  game  in  a  nursery  .  .  . 

And  the  black  mist  rose  and  wrapped  itself  over  all 

brightness — 
It  blotted  out  the  sun, 

[63] 


And  lay  over  the  gay  colors  of  flowers, 
It  hung  on  the  lips  of  laughter  like  a  sneer  .  .  . 
And  the  dark  guests  stayed  on — 
They  put  an  evil  sound  into  the  gentle  fall  of  snow; 
They  crept  into  the  wind  and  made  it  a  menace. 
They  pressed  dully  against  me — even  in  the  hour  of 
love  .  .  . 

Whence  will  come  the  cleansing  flame — 
Must  it  be  the  fire  of  my  own  heart? 
And  the  sword  of  deliverance — 
Must  it  be  made  with  my  own  hands?, 


[64] 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


- 

MAR   31    1936 

i  r              "    ' 

"  8    183s 

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^ 

APR  2  5195e.w 

'     *T     i'"^  .  '  *     "1  ^  'i  >~\ 

....      i  .t  »  i    •  ^rj     ItJOO 

^^*^  •      *^  ^-* 

APR 

H  1939 

JUL  24  1938 

OCT    l    |842 

JAN  18  i3^3 

LD  21-100m-8,'34 

x 


402212 

U, 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


.  ' 


